“Right.” Chels leans over to crank the volume dial. “You’re the chillest.”
“Damn right.” I raise my voice over the music.
My phone vibrates, and I jump to read the message.
“Stop sign!”
My foot slams the brake, and we skid to a halt just past the white line. A Toyota clears the intersection, and Chels and I take a second to pull our hearts out of our throats.
“Give it!” She snatches the phone from my hand, shoving it into her bra. “You can get it back when I’m home in one piece.”
“Don’t think I’m afraid to go after it.”
“You wouldn’t dare.” She calls my bluff.
I’m about to muster the courage to attempt the unthinkable when a horn blares behind me.
“Fine.”
We roll on as I envision Dennis plummeting down a flight of stairs.
Aunt Jill’s house is small but warm. Kind of like her. It’s tucked away in this neighborhood built in the sixties, just outside of Smyrna. It’s a single level, of course, and brick on all four sides with electric blue shutters because Jill said, and I quote, “This place needs a pop of color or I’m going to kill myself.”
So, the shutters got painted, Jill moved in, and the rest is history.
She used to live in midtown, in this incredible historic loft, but that was when she was able to bound up the stairs. It’s just one of the countless things that had to change in her life.
“You know you have to go back at some point, right?”
We’re sitting at her kitchen table/work desk, piles of photos and take-out menus scattered across the surface. I’m not sure how she gets anything done in this mess, but I guess everyone has their own system.
“I know,” I tell her, straightening up a stack of pictures. “And I will. Eventually.”
“What about Jack?”
“Mom’s picking him up today.” The edges of the pile are smooth now, and it makes me…well, happy isn’t the right word but close to it. “She had to get off early to meet with his teacher.”
“So, what’s the plan?” Jill shoves her laptop out of the way, resting her elbows on the edge of the table. “Gonna hide out here until your mom gets worried enough she keels over?”
“I haven’t thought that far.”
“Well, you’re free to stay as long as you want or until your clothes smell so bad I have to give you the boot. Also, I’m too busy to cook, so I hope you like old Chinese take-out.”
“It’s probably better than half the dinners I’ve made Jack eat over the last month.”
“Then it’s settled.” Jill claps her hands as if to signal the end of the conversation. “You’re in charge of food. I’ve got a pile of emails waiting to be ignored while I edit these pages. Best of luck.”
I don’t know what’s more concerning—the fact Jill works for a foodie magazine and eats partially moldy Moo Shu Pork or that she’s trusting me with preparing an already potentially fatal meal.
The refrigerator opens, and it’s a sea of white Styrofoam. I crack open a box, and I swear something moves from under the noodles. Slamming the door shut, I look at Jill who’s typing furiously and muttering to herself.
“Maybe a pizza?”
“Oh my god,” she moans, fingers still dancing across the keyboard. “You read my mind, Lan. There’s a great place down the street. Here.” She chucks her wallet at me. “Anchovies, pineapple, and prosciutto on my half, please.”
“Wait, where am I going?” I fumble the red leather clutch then bend down to scoop it off the floor.
“Just down the street.” Jill waves in a direction like it’s obvious. “Tell Antonio I want the usual. He’ll know what it means.”
“Right…” I’m still unclear as to how exactly I got in this situation, but I head for the door anyways.
“Oh, Lan!”
I stop, halfway across the threshold.
“If you even think about coming back without a two-liter of Mountain Dew, you’re dead to me.”
“Got it.”
And with those specific instructions, I’m on my way.
My phone is really warm when I get it back from the depths of Chels’s bosom. It also kinda smells like sweat, which is off-putting. Then again, girls do sweat, I suppose. That’s a reality most guys don’t want to accept. She waves goodbye as I back out of her stupid steep driveway.
I’m thinking about going home, but there’s nothing there to hold my interest. Plus, Claire and Dr. Douchebag are bound to be around, talking wedding plans with Mother. I’d rather blow my brains out than be in the same room as them. And who wants to clean all that up?
My stomach rumbles. I ignore it.
I hate to say it, but I’m bored. Maybe I can try calling Lock. Or better yet, I can drive off a bridge.
There’s got to be something for a teenager with too much of his parents’ cash burning a hole in his pocket to do in this city.
I could go to the movies, but I’ve seen all the good ones by now, and honestly, going to the theater without a make out buddy is utterly depressing.
Maybe a walk in the park. Then again, I’m not really in the mood to be chased by a homeless man who reeks of whiskey and B.O. I could work on some math homework, maybe Lock will want to meet up and…
Oh. Right.
Shit. I really fucked this up.
The mall is sounding better and better to kill some time. I can utilize retail therapy to help me forget how much I hate me right now.
Lenox Square, here I come.
There isn’t much I’ll admit to liking in this messed up world. As a teenage boy, I’m obligated to be apathetic about most things. Add in a touch of sass from my gay skinny-genes and you’ve got a recipe for one snarky, discontented youth.
But Lennox Square mall is worth sacrificing my ‘everything sucks’ outlook on life. I mean, there’s a butt-ton of malls around Atlanta, but none of them have the same feel as L-Square.
I pull up under the breezeway, climbing out of my car and handing the keys to the valet (How freaking awesome is that?). He’s cute. So’s the guy standing at the little valet desk. Do they just hire attractive men to park cars? It seems like a waste of talent. It is, however, a welcome distraction to kick-start my afternoon of dissociative behaviors.
How does one describe the feeling of stepping through the revolving brass door and into the cool, inviting breeze? It’s like God Himself is greeting me with a hug…and an invitation to spend exorbitant amounts of my parents’ money. What better pastime could I ask for?
I emerge from the rotating entrance, stepping onto a polished tile floor as crowds of afternoon shoppers move in beautiful synchronicity. It’s a dance, this ebb and flow, this rhythm and beat. It calls to me, a siren’s song of scintillating subtlety and capitalist undertones.
Oh my god, those cupcakes look amazing. I stop myself from pressing my nose against the glass of Sprinkles. Maybe just one of the little—
Nope. Keep walking, West. There’s a reason you could button your skinny jeans this morning, and it wasn’t because of cupcake snack breaks. Take the stairs. That’ll get your mind off icing and sprinkles and homeschooled hotties you blew it with.
I hoof it up to the second level, taking the steps two at a time to get my heart pumping. As I crest the landing, I skid to a stop, nearly colliding with a boy with gray hair.
“Whoa!” he catches me by the elbow, keeping me upright.
“S-Sorry,” I huff, slightly winded from my Rocky Balboa impersonation up the stairs.
“Don’t worry about it,” the guy replies, releasing me once I’m sure-footed. “Just try not to bulldoze any old ladi—Wait a second… Westley?”
The name makes me twitch. I blink, giving the tall boy a once over. His navy suit looks familiar, the emblem on his left lapel triggering something. I overlap his unnaturally gray hair with brown, and it falls together like the last piece of a puzzle.
“Clay?”
“Bingo!” He wraps
me in a hug, lifting me off the ground for a split second. “Holy shit, dude. I didn’t even recognize you! Where’d the rest of you go, Westley?”
My cheeks burn. I don’t want to think about Westley. Not when I’m just getting familiar with West.
“It’s actually just West now.” I shuffle my feet. I expect anger to simmer beneath my skin, but the heat doesn’t come.
“Oh man, Rising Creek just isn’t the same since you left.” He claps me on the shoulder. “Where are you going to school now?”
“Kennedy,” I say, eyes darting left and right, searching for a way out of this awkward conversation. Alright West. Exit, stage left.
“No shit.” Clay whistles, folding strong arms across his chest. He’s really filled out in five years. Twelve-year-old Clay wouldn’t have been able to lift me. Then again, I don’t think anyone could lift—
“How’s public school treating you?”
“It’s not so bad.” I pull my gaze away from his radically different body and back to the warm familiarity of his eyes. “It’s kinda great, actually.”
Clay sniffs as if the very thought of public school disgusts him. Then again, it probably does. He’s always had a taste for the finer things in life. Why he was ever interested in spending time with a mid-pubescent me is beyond my imagination. Especially since I was—
“I’ll take your word for it.” He’s still smiling at me, this stupid grin like he’s in on a secret. “Hey, are you busy right now?”
“Uh…” I run a hand through my hair, buying time to figure out how I want to answer. I haven’t seen Clay in years, not since he was Stretch and I was his sidekick, Pud—
Nope. Just thinking about it makes me want to puke.
“Come on, dude. Let’s hang out for old time’s sake. My, uh, friend bailed on me, and I was thinking about catching that new Tom Cruise movie. You know, the one where he’s the same character as in all his other movies, but this time, he flies a plane.”
That’s a bad idea. Full disclosure: I haven’t really gotten over the feelings I had for Clay when we were twelve and best friends and the world wasn’t so goddamn complicated.
But I don’t know how to say no, so I end up saying yes, and before I know it, we’re standing in line outside the mall’s AMC, the intoxicating smell of popcorn not helping the tight coil of knots winding in my stomach.
“How have things been?” Clay asks, shedding his uniform jacket and hanging it over his shoulder. He looks like he could’ve hopped out of one of the store windows.
“Great,” I lie. “How about you?”
“Dude, it’s been a crazy couple of years. Started playing baseball. That got me in shape. My old man finally decided he’d had enough and split. I get to go stay with him in Colorado during the summers. It’s so chill out there, you’d love it. And Mom is busy as ever, I don’t even really think she noticed he left, to be honest.”
“When did you do…this?” I ruffle the spikes of his hair.
“Last week, actually.” A hint of pink touches his cheeks. “My friend talked me into it. Needed a change, ya know?”
I know the feeling. My entire life has changed since the last time I saw Clay.
“Definitely.”
It’s our turn at the kiosk, and Clay buys both of our tickets even though I argue against it. He just winks at me and tells me to grab the popcorn while he gets our seats.
One eternity later, I carry the gargantuan tub of popcorn and two sodas into the dark theater, my feet sticking to the floor every couple of steps. Squinting into the murky room, I finally spy Clay waving like an idiot from the back row.
What the hell is he doing all the way up there?
I try to avoid making a huge mess, carefully scaling the stairs to the last row. I unload my spoils before settling into the seat next to Clay.
“What’s up with the nosebleeds?” I ask then take a swig of Coke Zero.
“It’s the best seat in the house!” Clay exclaims, munching on a handful of popcorn. “You don’t miss a thing back here.”
“If you say so.”
The lights dim, and the previews begin to role. Clay’s shoulder brushes against mine, and I notice the arm rest is up between the two of us. Did he…?
“Dude, remember that time we snuck into that Paranormal Activity movie on Jimmy’s birthday?” Clay is close, his hot breath tickles my ear. It’s suddenly difficult to think. “God, what a terrible idea that was. I couldn’t sleep for a week.”
I remember that night all too well. And the subsequent bout of nightmares.
“My parents had to send me to therapy to get over it,” I whisper back. Clay laughs like I’m joking, and I smile even though what I’ve said is one hundred percent true. Three years later, I went back to the same therapist for something completely different. But we’re not getting into that.
A trailer for some sappy love story is playing now, but I can’t focus on anything other than the warmth radiating from Clay as he leans into me.
“That looks like a good date movie,” he says, bobbing his head toward the screen.
“Yeah, sure,” I snort. “If you like straight, white, heteronormative bullshit.”
“Not a fan?”
“I just don’t understand how they can make the same movie a thousand times. And they wonder why no one comes to watch the stupid shit? Mark my words, if they made a semi-decent romantic comedy with two guys, that shit would sell out like that.” I snap my fingers for emphasis. “But no, no, you’re right. That would be a great date movie for you and your girlfriend. Hope you enjoy it, followed immediately by your white wedding and birth of your two-and-a-half children in the burbs.”
“Jesus.” Clay chuckles. “How long have you been wanting to get that off your chest?”
“Sorry,” I mutter, glad he can’t see my face flush in the darkness. Lack of diversity in romantic comedies is kind of my hill to die on.
“You know, dude, you’re sort of adorable when you’re raging.”
My heart jumps the express lane to my throat. The screen goes black as the intro for the movie begins, casting us into total darkness.
“What?”
As the title rises, Clay’s face illuminates, eyes refracting every speck of light. “I said you’re adorable,” he repeats in a low voice.
This isn’t happening. It can’t be. I must have tripped running up the stairs and fallen into some sort of gay coma, filled with all the boys I hopelessly pined after in my formative years. I’m fully expecting Logan Lerman to walk in next, followed shortly by my second cousin, Jesse (Hey, no judgment).
“Is something wrong?” Clay asks as if he didn’t just drop the biggest bomb in the history of social bombs.
“You’ve got to be fucking kidding.”
This isn’t happening. He’s pulling a prank, just like when we were kids. Only now, we’re not kids. He’s so close. I can’t stop looking at that face.
“Huh?” His eyebrows knit together in confusion.
“If this is a joke, Clay, I’m not laughing.”
“Dude, I’m not either. I’m sorry, I just thought that—”
“Thought what?”
His face is an inch from mine, eyes locked on me. I swallow.
He finishes his advance, lips pressing firmly to mine. His kiss tastes salty and a little oily from the butter, but that all fades in a second because Clay is kissing me and nothing makes sense anymore.
When his eyes open, he pulls away and watches me. I have no idea how he’s expecting me to react, and I don’t know what I’m feeling right now. I mean, my face is hot. My breath comes in sharp intakes. My already tight jeans are even tighter.
“Was that okay?” Clay asks, voice low and earnest.
“Uh… I... Yes.” I nod as if that adds clarity to my answer.
He cracks a smile, white teeth gleaming in the low light.
“Since when are you…?” I trail off.
“For a little while now,” he replies, leaning in for another
kiss.
I pull away from his advance. Something isn’t sitting right with me. Deferred anger roars to life in my gut.
“And you never told me? You were the first person I ever came out to, Clay. Why didn’t you say something?”
“I don’t know,” he whispers, shoulders sinking inward. “No, that’s not true. The truth is, I was terrified. Come on, Westley. After you came out, I had to watch you get tormented and smacked around every day. I wasn’t brave enough to go through that.”
“Oh, poor baby.” I scoff, fiery anger bubbling into my chest. “Having to stand by and watch your best friend get the shit kicked out of him. How horrible. If only there had been someone who knew how it felt.”
Clay recoils from my words. “I’m sorry.”
The hot emotion has bloomed into an inferno. “Sorry? Oh, that makes it all better. Are you fucking serious right now?”
“Shh!” someone hisses from up front.
“Go fuck a duck!” I retort.
Clay grabs my arm. “West, please.”
I shake him off, rising from the cushy seat. “I had to leave school, Clay. I had to leave you and every friend I had in this world because it wasn’t safe for me to be myself. Do you know how that feels?”
“I want to talk about this.” Clay is on his feet too. “But maybe someplace else.”
“Thank God,” says audience member number one.
I push against his chest. “And you abandoned me. What the hell, man? Not a phone call, not a text message. You didn’t care enough to know whether or not I was alive, and now you’re kissing me?”
“Shut up!” Yells audience member number two.
“It’s Tom Cruise, people! What are you missing?” I shout.
“West.” Clay’s fingers wrap around my wrist, pulling me to face him. “Come on, let’s get out of here and talk through this—”
“Get off me.” I shake free of his grasp. “This was a mistake.”
“West, please.” He reaches for me again, and I knock him away. “I’m sorry.”
In this moment, I completely believe he’s telling the truth, but it doesn’t change my mind. If anything, it only steels my determination. I reach for my cup of soda, swiping the lid off in a swift motion. With a flick of the wrist, I sling the dark liquid at Clay, soaking his jacket.
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